I was drawn to Kingsley Amis's debut novel because it has been described as a "literary tour de force" by aficionados far cleverer than I. Moreover, tI was drawn to Kingsley Amis's debut novel because it has been described as a "literary tour de force" by aficionados far cleverer than I. Moreover, the blurb promised "A brilliantly and preposterously funny book". So, before I'd even touched the first page, I was shimmying in the manner of a Brazilian carnival dancer in hot anticipation of satirical excellence.
The book introduces us to an unworldly and hapless junior lecturer in his first year at a provincial university (the eponymous 'Lucky Jim', aka Jim Dixon) who rails against the pomposity of the university's old world order. My three bits of good news are that the entire piece is well crafted, that Amis's plainspoken writing style is not to be sneezed at, and that some of the humour did at least cause me to crack a smile. The bad news (for me at least) is that the humour didn't raise anything more than a smile because I'm a grizzled sourpuss who's been around the block innumerable times and no longer finds campus humour to be particularly funny. This novel was deemed shocking back in the day, so I guess I should have read it whilst I was still a long-haired English literature student, because then it might have seemed anarchic and risqué and might have titillated me more than it did.
Amis must have intended that his readers would side with Jim Dixon, that they might find him an endearing rebel and a well-intentioned vodka-swilling underdog. But my impression was that he needed to sort himself out and stop being such a pathetic loser.
Please note that most readers of this book found it completely hilarious and deliciously edgy, so it might be a very good idea to disregard all that I've said.
And there we have it: my nonconformist review of Lucky Jim. Devotees of this book are welcome to come after me with pitchforks and lanterns in hand, but I've already fled the village. : )...more
I was really looking forward to reading this book. The promise of dark magical realism had me licking my lips and rubbing my knees. Was Jenni Fagan a I was really looking forward to reading this book. The promise of dark magical realism had me licking my lips and rubbing my knees. Was Jenni Fagan a Scottish version of Jess Kidd? I wondered. With hopes heightened, loins girded and gherkins pickled, I dived right in…
Alas, it took me a while to adjust to Fagan's staccato writing style. I'm not ordinarily a fan of stop/start narratives that judder along in tiny sentences and found the author's Post-it prose more than a little jarring. "Give me broad-winged sentences that fly from their pages!" I say. "Not clipped ones that stay in their cages." I have no doubt that this body of work could have been amazing had it been allowed to blossom into a free-flowing novel.
Now I'm rather fond of a swear word or two, but felt that the profanity herein was overdone to the point that it felt juvenile: "How cool am I? I'm using lots of grown-up swear words! I know! It's so-o cutting edge!" : )
To give it its due, the book is also feathered with creative brilliance and is as atmospheric as it is audacious. It just wasn't for me. Sorry. I would also like to add that most readers of this Gothic curiosity have sung its praises and that my opinion is just my opinion.
Anyway, it's been nice talking. I'll, um, fetch my coat and see myself out…...more
Propaganda is a monologue that is not looking for an answer, but an echo." —W. H. Auden
I feel duped. This overhyped book was advertised thus: "A litPropaganda is a monologue that is not looking for an answer, but an echo." —W. H. Auden
I feel duped. This overhyped book was advertised thus: "A literary read ... dark and gripping ... a shocking twist ending!"
To amuse myself, I was going to type my review in the truncated style in which the book was written (at times it more resembled an eye chart than a piece of literature), but Mark Monday has beaten me to the punch. : ( Mark Monday's review I was expecting a literary tour de force: a book that would have me purring over its erudite prose as it dragged me into its diabolical depths. Alas, it was as thrilling as last year's Penguin-Counting Competition in Antartica.
And as for the 'shock twist', (view spoiler)[I assumed 'something' to be the case early on - and anticipated a far juicier twist to come. Alas, the 'thing' that I'd already taken for granted WAS the twist! (hide spoiler)] *sigh*
"A story should glide like a yacht, not bump along like a supermarket trolley." —Me
Having seen a profusion of rapturous reviews for this African ta"A story should glide like a yacht, not bump along like a supermarket trolley." —Me
Having seen a profusion of rapturous reviews for this African tale, I had very high hopes. And what a gorgeous title too! I was beguiled and ready to be seduced. "Let me at it!" I cried.
Hurrr-rrr-chh! (A screech of brakes, or a needle skidding on vinyl).
Alas, I just didn't take to it. I know I'm a fusspot, but I really didn’t warm to it. And for that, I'm truly sorry. The omniscient narrator (a guardian spirit) waffled on in a simplistic writing style that had me rolling my eyes and wishing we could bring a resuscitation team of literary greats back from the dead. The first few chapters were all exposition and there was nothing here that resembled an actual story. Our ethereal narrator kept repeating, "I had seen it many times." To which I retorted, "Yes, you've said it many times too, you insufferable parrot!" And ... relax. Namaste. So, while the cosmic blather continued with little sign of anything resembling dialogue or human interaction on the horizon, I shimmied into a lifebuoy and prepared to jump ship. Happily, a story began to emerge. And a very promising one at that: a tale of Nonso Olisa, an ill-starred Nigerian poultry farmer who falls in love with a woman who, as a result of being jilted, was intent on throwing herself off a bridge. "Ah-ha! That's more like it!" I cheered, casting off my lifebuoy and getting myself nice and comfy with a packet of chocolate chip cookies. Auspiciously, the author began to move through his literary gears, fashioning a contemporary Greek tragedy that suggested it might finally live up to its star billing (and what eventually happens to our unworldly chicken farmer when he relocates to Cyprus is a complete volte-face from the book's uneventful opening chapters). The scene was set and I was ready to give it a second chance. But, d'oh! Again with the exposition! Chigozie Obiama snatches defeat from the jaws of victory by reintroducing yet more explanatory notes (groan) that are surely surplus to requirements. There was a potentially-moving human story here that needed to be told! (A thorough edit and word cull would have done this novel a power of good). The story continued to advance like a slug through treacle and, despite his terrible woes, I lost all sympathy for the hapless main character (he was largely the architect of his own downfall). I rooted for Ndali (the lady from the bridge) much more. The pacing throughout remained leaden and I really struggled to get to the finishing line.
In my humble opinion, Salman Rushdie (Midnight’s Children) and Gabriel García Márquez (One Hundred Years of Solitude) do first-person and third-person narrative storytelling so much better.
But, as you can see by its plethora of laudatory reviews, Chigozie Obiama's book delights a great many of his readers, so I'm almost certain you should take what I've said with a pinch of salt and dive right in! Have a lifebuoy ready, though, just in case......more
Oh, the Russian roulette of having blind faith in a complete stranger's book recommendation! "You will love this," gushed a crocodile-skinned English lOh, the Russian roulette of having blind faith in a complete stranger's book recommendation! "You will love this," gushed a crocodile-skinned English lady at my Thai resort hotel. "It's partly set in Thailand and is a real page-turner."
There followed one of the most ridiculous reads I've ever had the misfortune to experience. I'm completely baffled by all the five-star reviews for this one-dimensional yawnfest; the contrived storyline has to rank as one of the most implausible of all time. Lead character, Grace, must be THE most gullible woman ever to walk the planet, and characterless Jack is about as evil as Mr Bean! And what were his 'evil plans' anyway? Were they oh-so-evil that we're too delicate to be told? I ask you, who could possibly be duped by such a dullard? Dopey Grace, that's who! : D
I also wonder if the author has ever flown abroad in her life? She certainly doesn't seem to know how an airport works. And as for mentioning a Bangkok hotel 'with its own private beach', well that just creased me up. I've been travelling to Bangkok for twenty years and if there is a beach there, neither myself nor the locals know of its whereabouts!! Hilarious! : D B A Paris even seems to think that you can get upgraded to First Class just by giving the check-in staff a hard-luck story. Oh, per-lease!
To make things worse, there is a stark absence of descriptive imagery, the characterisation is gossamer-thin and I've seen more twists on a runway.
Although I'm clearly not a fan, the crocodile-skinned lady, and many on Goodreads, absolutely loved it. So, what do I know? ...more
"My son, here may indeed be torment, but not death." —Dante (Purgatorio)
There really, really must be something wrong with me. Many of my esteemed Go"My son, here may indeed be torment, but not death." —Dante (Purgatorio)
There really, really must be something wrong with me. Many of my esteemed Goodreads friends, whose rave reviews I have a lot of faith in, are smitten with George Saunders' book. It's even won the blimmin' Booker Prize for crying out loud!
Um, where to begin? he grimaces, wringing his hands in the manner of a doctor delivering bad news.
I tried my hardest to like it, I really did - in the same way I once tried to like green smoothies first thing in the morning, until I came to the realisation that a nice cup of Earl Grey was still a better option! Booker Prize, or no Booker Prize, I would be lying if I said that I enjoyed this irksome offering. A patchwork quilt of musings, transcripts, obituaries and purgatorial grumblings does not (in my humble opinion) form a novel. Sandwiched somewhere between Saunders' rectangles of anecdotal nonsense is a soulful, heart-rending human interest tale that deserves to be told. I rather hoped that he would give up on this clunky gimmick and get on with writing something resembling an actual story but, alas, he continued in the same vein until the bitter end. This, to me, was the literary equivalent of scrolling through someone else's text messages (except I would have derived more pleasure from reading someone else's text messages). And why do some ghosts even bother to self-censor their swear words with dashes? Whose delicate sensibilities are they worried about upsetting? Everybody's dead anyway! It's so f--king annoying! I apologise to everyone who has swooned over this body of work. There is a very good chance that my antipathy might betray a complete lack of good taste and understanding on my part.
In fairness, I do see this working better as an audiobook, or as a stage play. But as a novel? Nope, not for me. Not in this lifetime anyway. Sorry. : (...more
You know those irritating people who talk to children and old people as if they were babies, in a puerile, singsong voice? Well, those idiots sprang toYou know those irritating people who talk to children and old people as if they were babies, in a puerile, singsong voice? Well, those idiots sprang to mind as I endured the narrative voice of this glacially slow yawnfest of a novel.
This is a book so plodding, so dreary and so pretentious that I gave up on it halfway through. With a less-than-pleased harrumph, I shoved it into a slot on my bookshelf alongside The Remains of the Day, which I'd bought at the same time, anticipating dual sublimity.
So for the past few years there they both sat, on the bookcase equivalent of a naughty step, sulking like teenagers and glaring at me each time I passed. "Oh, get over yourselves!" I berated, turning them around so that only their pages were on show. Ha! That taught them a lesson they'll never forget!
But right now, I'm giving The Remains of the Day its day in the sun. It's highly spoken of by numerous Goodreaders, so I'm hoping that Ishiguro can belatedly turn my frown upside down.
As for Never Let Me Go, the only thing that I have in common with its improbable story line is that (view spoiler)[I carry an organ donor card in my wallet, though mine are only due to be harvested after my death. (hide spoiler)] : )
I remember someone describing this as being somewhere between Kafka and Enid Blyton, which is most apt. Read this book by all means, but don't say that I didn't warn you.
UPDATE:The Remains of the Day was a triumph, in my view! : )...more
"Nolite te bastardes carborundum." (Don't let the bastards grind you down.)
Because so many of my esteemed Goodreads friends have sung in praise"Nolite te bastardes carborundum." (Don't let the bastards grind you down.)
Because so many of my esteemed Goodreads friends have sung in praise of this novel, I felt that I was destined to join their burgeoning ranks. Instead, I was left scratching my head, wondering if I'd even read the same book!
I was that rarity - an Atwood virgin - and I was knee-tremblingly keen to pop my cherry. I would love to say that I was enthralled and that I am now a fan, but I can't. I simply can't. I'm not a polemicist; it pains me to do this but, aaaghh, I shall be putting my head above the parapet.
First, the positives: The concept is venerable, following the tradition of dystopian classics, such as Orwell's 1984 and Huxley's Brave New World. This is a cautionary tale of what *might* happen were we to ignore the erosion of democratic and social freedoms, thereby enabling a right-wing Christian theocracy to take over. The author perfectly captures the resigned bleakness of such a subjugated existence. There were instances of genius and some moments where I could clearly see certain scenes playing out in the cinema of my mind (the illicit Scrabble games, for example).
Now, the negatives: (Apologies to all you Atwood fans; I am actually cringing as I type this). My read got off to an inauspicious start. Almost immediately, I encountered a post-modernist (imagine me doing air quotes) sentence that was so-o long it straddled different time zones. Here it is: >>A balcony ran around the room, for the spectators, and I thought I could smell, faintly like an afterimage, the pungent scent of sweat, shot through with the sweet taint of chewing gum and perfume from the watching girls, felt-skirted as I knew from pictures, later in mini-skirts, then pants, then in one earring, spiky green-streaked hair.<<
So, please convince me, Atwood fans. Tell me honestly that this is not a clumsily-written sentence. And there are ten commas, for crying out loud! TEN. Count them! If you arranged the little buggers together in a line, you could almost simulate the legs of a millipede!
I'm clearly of the opinion that metafiction belongs in the same orbit as conceptual art, along with the collective denial that causes people to gush over the aesthetic beauty of a pile of bricks in an art gallery. Go to a building site, I say. There's no entrance fee! : )
I so wanted to like this book. I would have loved to join the legion of Atwood devotees and be here, right now, singing her praises. But, for me, her dictation prose is perfunctory, the similes are decidedly clunky, the syntax is dissonant, and the story just plodded along like an emphysemic tortoise. Were it not for the endorsements of my Goodreads friends rattling about in my mind, I would have abandoned it.
Despite its Chaucerian title, the book is set in an unspecified future where America has been hijacked by Christian Fundamentalists who treat enslaved fertile women as wombs on legs (an Old Testament-style version of the Taliban, I guess). It's told in the first-person narrative, from the POV of Offred, one such fem-slave, whose sole purpose in life is to endure loveless copulation in the hope of successful fertilisation. She remembers life before servitude and secretly wishes to be valued. "It's only the insides of our bodies that are important."
It gives me no pleasure to write this; I fully realise that I am swimming against the tide of popular opinion here. I feel like the mutinous child in Hans Christian Andersen's The Emperor's New Clothes. I know Margaret Atwood to be a kind, thoughtful and altruistic lady; her book is prescient and has topical relevance, but so does 1984 and Brave New World. Each is far better (in my humble opinion).
I am so sorry, Atwood addicts. I must be missing something.
3.5 I usually love books that are set in the Indian subcontinent but found this one frustrating to be honest. On the one hand it was a tour de force of 3.5 I usually love books that are set in the Indian subcontinent but found this one frustrating to be honest. On the one hand it was a tour de force of sumptuous prose, but on the other I found that the narrative meandered all over the place, making it difficult to for me (with my grasshopper brain) to keep up. Although Roy's writing is kissed by the gods, I'm a great believer in a story's need to flow and my early enthusiasm became steadily dampened as the book progressed....more
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